Quiet
by gussiegal5
Summary: Sometimes John can't stand the silence of his apartment.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Quiet

Rating: G

Story Warnings: UST, I've got this thing for Michael Emerson's legs and I think it shows

Relationships: One Sided John Reese/Harold Finch

Characters: John Reese, Harold Finch

Summary: Sometimes John can't stand the silence of his apartment.

A/N: No real spoilers. No real plot.

* * *

The library is a quiet cave. Dark and cool and private. The narrow windows keep out all but the thinnest haze of sunlight and John, burrowed deep in a darkened corner, feels like an injured animal come home to its lair to lick at wounds both psychological and physical.

It feels like an eternity since he's been able to sleep in the too empty loft that Finch had bought for him. He can go for days without sleep, but even he needs a chance to rest sometimes.

He can hear Finch's footsteps, the slow offbeat tread and the gentle rustle of expensive fabric.

He's pretty sure Finch doesn't know that he's here. He should announce himself, disrupt that stride towards the desk and comfortable chair.

He really doesn't want to.

So John stays silent and unknown in his hidden corner. His own dragging feet had managed to pull him to this private spot, but no further. He's sure the expensive suit, that Finch had purchased for him, was crinkling harshly beneath his weight as he curls onto his side. He's sure that it's dusty and stained at this point. Can't find it in himself to care. There's more where this one came from.

This spot, his spot, had been a lucky find and he was careful to keep it as dusty and uncared for as the rest of the library is. He doesn't want Finch to be wandering through the shelves and knowing about this impropriety, this madness.

His blue eyes stare between several shelving units free of books, letting him watch Finch from the knee down as he sits down at his desk.

Leather shoes, a shining reflective black that gleamed with distorted reflections. Black socks that covered up ankles as finely boned in their way he knew as the wrists that were always covered by shirt and coat sleeves.

The ankles were only briefly glimpsed as the shorter man adjusted his pants so that they skimmed the top of his shoes again. John restrains a sigh of disappointment, but lets himself admire the slender calves that the tailor-fitted suit shows off so well.

The low sound of the computer starting up brings John's eyes away from the gray cloth and he shuts them tightly, pressing his flushed face into the cool marble, trying to get rid of the haze that has been pulling at him.

He can't allow himself much, if he tries to take anything except for money from Finch, John knows he'd never stop. Would just take and take until Finch would recognize him for what he was. Would see what a mistake he had made in trusting John Reese with his mission and with his life.

The numbers were the only important thing, _they _were the only reason that Reese deserved to be alive. Not because he was a good man, never because he was a good man. He had to help Finch and help the irrelevant people that the government wasn't willing to protect.

Finch began to type, the keyboards hit so swiftly and smoothly that they created an easy susurration that served as a lullaby for John.

He let his body, already lax, go completely boneless. His eyes opened up again, but this time instead of focusing on Harold, John let his eyes track the dust motes that twirled in the slender bands of sunlight.

John knew what he was, but he also knew that if he didn't have these brief afternoons where he allowed himself to drown in the sounds of Harold Finch he'd have to dive back into a bottle in order to escape just how messed up he really was.

This man had given him a purpose, had saved his life. He would break that trust only a little bit and that would be enough. Would have to be enough.

As John allows himself to slip into a dreamless slumber, lulled by the keyboard and Harold's even puffs of breath, he lets his gaze wander once more to the slim legs before his eyes slide shut and he falls deep into bloodless black.


	2. Sequel: Bare

Title: Bare

Rating: G

Story Warnings: More UST, pining, one f-bomb,

Relationships: One sided John Reese/Harold Finch

Characters: John Reese, Harold Finch, Bear

Summary: This is a sequel to 'Quiet'.

A/N: I haven't seen all of Season 2 yet but I just adore Bear.

* * *

John loved Bear. The dogs presence was the only reason that he had managed to leave Finch alone after Root.

Well that and the fact that Harold might have objected (very strongly) to Reese attaching them at the hip.

The numbers never stopped coming, but he had used as much of his rare spare time as he could trying to track the woman down.

No dice, she was in the wind.

It took him weeks but finally John could feel that tight terror that had clenched his throat and chest finally loosen its grasp.

By the time he finally allowed himself to relax John had dropped weight that he had sorely needed and his eyes were surrounded by dark circles that left his gaunt face a contrast of shadow and gleaming highlights.

The latest number had been dropped into the backseat of an idling police cruiser, his hands zip tied and evidence of his attempted murder spattered across his jacket.

John stumbled into a nearby shadow, and contemplated his choices.

He could go back to his loft, toss and turn on the large bed until morning and probably lose the next physical altercation he threw himself into or he could creep into the library and find the small place that he had carved out for himself.

The small corner hidden amongst the stacks usually let him listen to Finch but he hoped the association alone would help him rest.

Finch had probably already gone home, taking Bear with him, and he could rest there in safety until morning.

As long as he set the alarm on his phone for a little after 4 he should be able to slip back out of the library and return if Harold called for him.

He'd get more sleep there, although he was afraid it wouldn't be as deep or as dream free as it usually was since the library would lack the small sounds that Harold made as he went about his business.

It was really no choice at all.

It took John a forty-five minute eternity to make his way back to the library, which hulked like a gargoyle on its street corner, all of its lights extinguished.

He trudged up the stairs. His hand wrapped around the banister and his shoulder sliding gently along the wall above it, supporting his weight, John fought to stay on his feet.

The small clearing amidst the stacks was waiting for him. As dusty and uncared for as usual, and such a welcome sight John had to bite back a gasp of relief.

He hadn't been able to rest in the small area recently and he had missed the feeling that it gave him.

The man might never love him; might never even want him but John knew that Harold was it for him.

Jessica had been his first real love. Harold was something else.

If Harold had ever shown John the slightest sign that he had wanted him John knew he would have knelt at the older man's feet and done whatever was asked of him.

He didn't think Harold would or could ever love him, but before he had found out about Grace there had been a small ember of hope that perhaps...but John had felt that spark die.

He should have known better a long time ago. Should have kept reminding himself that all that he was good for was protecting the numbers and Harold. Then he had fucked even that up. So really he wasn't good for much of anything was he?

Shaking away his melancholy John put his gun on the shelf between a row of low slung books and the tall shelf.

He pulled off the wool coat that had covered his suit, then the suit jacket, hanging up the latter. He unbuttoned his shirt as well leaving him in a white t-shirt and his suit pants. He kicked off shoes and socks and curled up on the cold marble, pulling his coat on top to serve as an impromptu blanket.

He had to curl his long limbs in tight so that they were all protected from the bite of the cool air but it took him only a single long inhale and exhale before he dropped into unconsciousness.

His phone lay forgotten inside of the coat pocket.

* * *

The first thing John was aware of was a slippery smooth wet warmth dragging across his face.

His eyes flew open and he stared at Bears' happy panting face in shock.

Another lick to his cheek brought John's hands up to his face as he fought off the affectionate animal. He'd need to think fast. If Finch was here, he'd need to figure out how to…

"Good morning, Mr. Reese."

John let his eyes slide shut and he rested his face in Bears' ruff to hide the hot flush he could feel climbing up his neck.

"Mr. Finch."

Pulling himself to his feet, John noticed the bright light that came through the slender windows of the library and cursed himself for a fool.

He'd obviously forgotten to set the cellphone alarm.

He obviously was a complete moron with no self preservation.

John pulled himself to his feet as nonchalantly as he could manage. Snatching his button up shirt and swinging it over his shoulders as quickly as he could.

"My apologies, Mr. Finch. I was more tired than I realized."

He had yet to meet his employers eyes, but he could feel the burn of their steady regard as he scrambled to put his clothing back to rights.

"There's a couch."

John pulled his eyes away from his buttons, watching the smaller man warily.

"If you felt that strongly about staying in the library Mr. Reese, there's a couch. It's fairly comfortable and always available for your use."

"Thank you Mr. Finch. I'll remember that."

John jerked his coat back on at last and strode towards the door, stumbling to a stop when he realized that Finch wasn't going to move.

"Is there something wrong with your loft?"

"Nothing. It's just...nothing. Do we have another number?"

"Not as yet."

"Ah well perhaps I'll go take advantage of the loft then."

Finch still showed no inclination to move and John broke and ran.

Spinning on his heels and taking shameless advantage of his employers handicap he went the long way around the corner of the stacks and hot footed it out of the door and back on to the street.

The bite of the concrete made him look down and curse quietly.

He'd forgotten his shoes and socks.

Thankfully New York was the sort of place where a man wearing an obviously tailored suit striding confidently down the street and completely barefoot in late autumn brought some stares but no comments.

John thanked God for very small favors.


	3. Sequel: Soft

Title: Soft

Rating: PG

Story Warnings: light M/M, pining, angst

Relationships: John Reese/Harold Finch

Characters: John Reese, Harold Finch

Summary: This is a sequel to 'Quiet' and 'Bare'

A/N: So Bear is completely absent from this fic. I don't know where he is. *feels bad man*

* * *

The fact that he had two pairs of dress shoes was small solace for John.

Leaving his shoes and socks behind as he ran away from Finch like a child was humiliating; the fact that Finch hadn't even tried to contact him since then made him want to curl back up into a bottle and never come out.

It was the next afternoon and, although John had been accused of many things cowardice was not generally one of them, as he slunk back into the library.

John could hear the clickety clack of keys as he slipped up the stairs and he had to drag in a deep inhalation of air as he fought with himself before he regained control.

He could do this, it was only his exhaustion and abrupt awakening that had broken his usual stoicism.

Stepping up the steps, John kept his stride quick and light. No hesitation. He needed to keep his equilibrium and hopefully Finch would just pass off what happened as a one-off that wouldn't be repeated.

He strode into the room and pulled even with the desk and its empty chair. Head swivelling alertly John kept his breath from catching with an effort as he took in the changes that had been wrought in the large room.

The empty bookshelves that had previously allowed him visual access to Harold's legs had been completely filled in. He didn't really want to think about how much effort and discomfort the older man had went through to make sure of that.

Embarrassment fought with shame in his chest as he took in the evidence in front of him. A small end tables contents caught his attention next and John grimaced as he stepped forward to pick up his shoes, each one containing a neatly rolled sock. They'd been freshly polished.

"Mr. Reese."

Finch's voice was quiet in the darkened room, John had to turn his startled jump into a smooth turn that let him face the older man.

He was standing by the stacks, as beautifully dressed as ever. John let his eyes drop, this was generally a good tactic. Whoever was pissed at him thought he was ceding authority to them and he could get a good look at their legs without seeming creepy.

Although the fact that legs turned him on as much as they did probably placed him firmly in that category. He refused to feel shame for what he liked, but he should probably be ashamed of what he was doing.

Finch had more or less explicitly told him to stop what he was doing.

Brown shoes. Mmm leather. As brightly polished as the black pair, though the rich mahogany didn't reflect images as well.

"Finch."

The slender legs stepped towards him, too close.

John wrenched his eyes up and shied away from the hand that he could see coming towards him. He could block any incoming blow that Finch could think of but it would probably hurt the smaller man. He really didn't want to do that.

"Really, Mr. Reese?" Harold's voice scolded as he kept his arm moving towards him until he grasped the taller man's arm. The pressure was butterfly light and warm enough to leave a bar of heat across his bicep.

"Sit down."

Finch had led him to the small couch, leather again, and John let the slight increase in pressure lead him down into the seat.

Finch loomed over him for once. His bright eyes peered out from behind his glasses as he stared down at John, as though he were a problem in need of a solution.

"You look tired Mr. Reese. Trouble sleeping at the loft?"

John started to gather his feet underneath him again, before he could manage it Finch gave him a hard shove that sent him tumbling back into the couches cool embrace.

"Stay put. It seems we need to have a conversation."

"Don't see what for." John drawled, letting his arms drape over the back of the couch and his legs sprawl open.

"I've spoken, I would say is the best word, to the Machine. It seems you have interesting sleeping habits Mr. Reese."

John let his eyes droop low to try and cover up any reaction he might give away.

"Keeping an eye on me Harold?"

"She keeps an eye on everyone Mr. Reese, she just chooses to generally keep private information to herself."

"Until you ask her apparently." John's tone strove towards acidic and barely reached heated.

"Every three days," Harold continued ignoring that last jab, "you slip into the library at 2 or 3 in the morning, numbers allowing. You generally stay until I take a tea break around 10. It seems despite training and paranoia respectively we are both men of habit"

"Should I apologize?"

"No, Reese, but I do think you should explain."

"Easier to sleep. Library's as secure a location as its possible for it to be."

"Hmm, true perhaps though no the whole truth."

"I never promised you absolute honesty."

"No, I guess you didn't. However I do believe that I deserve a more complete explanation. Besides the Machine seems to believe that you don't actually go to sleep until I have been sitting at the desk for several minutes; judging by your breathing pattern. I can infer from that, and the direct view that the curiously empty shelves gave you of me, that it is my presence rather than the library that lets you sleep."

Damn him anyways. John let his features drift from passive to cold as Finch tore him to pieces, politely of course. Harold stayed implacably in front of him, hands ready to push him back down into the low slung couch.

Only escape was through Harold, unacceptable. On the other hand if he dove off and to the side he could probably make good his escape before the injured man could catch up to him. Of course then he could look forward to this conversation again and again until Harold got the answers that he was demanding.

"Keyboard makes for good white noise."

"Also true, how about the rest of it?"

"Damn it, Finch! Get the hell out of my way."

"No. The rest of it."

All of John's muscles had been tightening as he was cornered and he exploded from the couch and slipped between Harold's outstretched arms.

John leaned in close, inhaling deeply, taking in the smoky spicy scent of Harold's cologne as he gently curved one of his hands around Harold's jaw and leaned down until he had pressed his lips firmly against Harolds'.

The lips stayed slack, parted in surprise, for several long breathless moments where John felt his heart begin to tumble from his chest down to his stomach. John jerked his face away as though his lips had been burnt.

Harold's eyes were huge and his face was pale enough that John couldn't suppress a flinch.

Two questions answered then; both Harold's and his own.

John pulled away even further and started to make another hasty retreat for the door, although this time he thought it would be a permanent one.

A hand wrapping itself tightly around John's wrist jerking him back and twisting him around with surprising force.

Harold's face had snapped free from his frozen shock and John nearly gulped at the blown pupils and the ruddy color that was starting to rise up in the older man's cheeks.

"Well then," Harold said quietly. "That explains quite a bit Mr...John."

Harold grabbed the lapel of John's jacket and brought him down to his level again before pressing his lips hard against Johns.

John dove in helplessly, swiping his tongue across Harold's in one instant and biting his thin lower lip gently the next. He let his body surge forward again, letting himself almost curl around the smaller man, trying to encircle everything. Keep him close and safe.

John finally had to pull back to take a deep breath but a hand on his chest kept him from returning for another kiss.

"Stop, John, we need to talk about this."

John growled low in his throat before he dropped to his knees and began to scrabble at Harold's button and fly.

"Stop!"

John flinched away from the sharp tone and looked up pleadingly at Harold.

"Come on Harold. I'll make it good for you, so good. Call me anything, I can be anyone you want."

Harold let one of his hands card through the short salt and pepper hair before he grabbed the strands hard pulling John's head back until his neck was arched sharply backwards.

"John."

John forced his shoulders to relax and he bent to the pressure hiding any flicker of pain that the position might have caused.

"Come on."

"I'm not going to fuck you."

John let his mouth fall open and he licked his lips.

"Let me suck you then. Quick and easy for you. One time or whenever you want."

Harold leaned forward and kissed John gently again, not letting the agile tongue enter his mouth and pulling away after a chaste moment.

"I do want you John. You. When we make love, I will not be imagining you as anyone but yourself and it will be more than wonderful I'm sure."

"But you don't trust me." Harold smothered John's protest. "Not yet at least. So today nothing is going to happen. You're also exhausted, so what I really want you to do is lay down on the couch and sleep for as long as you like. No sneaking away."

Harold stepped away from John's kneeling form and he opened a small cubby in the end table pulling out a blanket and a small pillow.

John took them hesitantly, sharp eyes puzzled as he tried to figure out what scam Finch was playing now.

Finch gently pushed John towards the couch again and the tall man pulled himself up on it, drawing the blanket around him and slipping the pillow beneath his cheek.

John settled in, he had no intention of sleeping. The couch was very comfortable, sagging and worn so that it neatly swallowed up its occupants keeping them encased in fragrant leather and softly padded in all of the best ways.

Harold kept watch until he was satisfied before he returned to his chair at the computer desk and pulling up a screen began to type almost immediately.

This view was something else entirely from the stolen glances that John had managed to gather from the stacks. He could see the rise and fall of Harold's shoulders as he worked on a particularly challenging piece of code. Since he was facing Harold's side he also had an almost unobstructed view of the man's legs.

Minutes passed and Harold's typing and the relaxed expression that stole across his face as he dove into another world made John curl up a little tighter.

This was just pity. Harold would lead him on long enough to get whatever he needed from him and then he'd be tossed to the wayside.

Harold stopped typing for a moment to look over at John, face soft and lips smiling gently as he met the younger man's eyes.

"Sleep John. I'll be here when you wake up."

And John, did.


End file.
